Lady In Red

A Lady in Red The road leading to the main lane is a sight black and shiny with white stripes on each side, it was resurfaced not for us locals, but for a golf course in a grove of a thousand olive trees sacrificed as a sport for infantile men in clown slacks The day was mild and dark clouds hung around like rugby players fretting, the other team was late, ready to insult passers-by and I thought of the petulant title of a book: ” God is not great”, a boy defying everyone, but whistles in the dark. My road ended at the lane going to Benafim where a woman in a red dress stood with a unlit cigarette in her left hand and I noticed her long fingernails were Phosphor green, she asked for a lighter, said I don`t smoke trying not to be pompous about it. She called me a self-absorbed man this angered me much I pushed her on to the main road where she was hit by a sport-car, - also red- she and the car disappeared yonder. From the principal lane, I could see my Sahara a breeze came carried me like I should be a fall leaf down to the plain and I was no longer alone, but then the rain came like a dense wall a ruin appeared it had a wide covered entrance but no roof, sought shelter. Blood of millions of ant I had trampled on in my search for beauty was washed away and my feet was clean and scented as cardinal`s shanks ready for the pope`s ritual. In ionized shimmer, I saw her again, dressed in red and she is called, lady poetry.